Content Warnings:

  SpoilerHeavy transphobia (including slurs, deadnaming, misgendering, and sexualization); gender dysphoria; references to grooming; alcohol abuse.

  [colpse] AnnouncementIt's mentioned in the Content Warning above, but please be advised - this chapter contains a lot of transphobia.VI. Trans-Identifying MessI slept as Cassie, because the thought of being Maisie for any longer was too painful. The light stick has been sitting on my bedside table all night - a small, metallic threat - and I’ve had more than one temptation to just use it. To wipe away Sunday completely. To skip to a future where this doesn’t ache so much. The only thing that stopped me from spiralling out entirely was that there were too many things to spiral over - I couldn’t hyper-fixate on one.

  I kissed Sadie Cross. Or she kissed me. We’ll never know, because we erased it from our memories. But I took a photo. Why? Some deranged joke for our future selves? Were we delirious after a day of betrayal, memory wipes, and philosophical warfare? Does she know it happened?

  My stomach churns as I remember the image - the curve of her hand against my face, how comfortable we both looked. That’s the most horrifying part. We were smiling.

  Sadie does know that I wiped her memory. That’s something she’ll remember - and she might even forgive me for it. As long as she doesn’t know the full details. I wiped the whole team’s memory to let a baby-eating Trowkin child disappear into the woods. And even now, when I try to breathe, the thought of her falling into The Coalition’s hands makes my chest tighten. I was never going to let that happen.

  So what did I let happen instead?

  Esmeralda’s face, cradled against her father’s shoulder, won’t leave my mind. Not the rage she came running with, but the way she clung to him before letting go. The way her little fingers twisted in the fabric of his coat.

  Will she survive on her own? Or did I just dey her execution - and possibly kill more innocent children in the process? I don’t know. I can’t know. But I promised Gill - and I will go back. I’ll check on her. Eventually. I have a pretty busy schedule at the moment.

  For example, tonight is the night that Holly Barton steps out into the world.

  I will be going to the old Labour Club, to infiltrate a group of some of the most bitter, paranoid people I’ve ever encountered. People who believe in their own righteousness like it’s oxygen. People who would murder me if they knew what I was. And if one of them is a vampire - if there’s a supernatural predator with a vendetta against people like me and Lexi - I’m going to find them.

  What I’m more afraid of is everything I’ll have to hear before I do. They won’t be just asking questions. Tonight, I’ll have to smile through every hateful answer.

  Then, of course, there’s my pet egg Jamie - who I’m meeting tomorrow night - the probably-not-a-boy who seems to be trying to juggle two of my personas himself.

  Lexi and Tommy... where do I even begin? Jordan’s miserable because she’s starting to learn that The Coalition isn’t perfect. And who the hell sold the Trowkin this high-tech equipment?

  As I reluctantly get dressed, bewildered by the fact that it’s Monday already, I transform myself back into Maisie - one body part at a time. The process is mundane, like getting dressed or brushing my teeth. It's just muscle memory, clicking myself into pce.

  My greatest regret from yesterday is not using it to swindle a day off. Put on some big puppy-dog eyes for George, embellish my heroics a tad, and I could’ve spent today in bed, or hanging out with Lexi. Instead, it’s back to the grind.

  As if she heard me, my phone buzzes.

  Lexi: soooo you going to tell me what happened yesterday?Lexi: as in, why you left me running ragged on a Sunday evening on my poor lonesome

  I haven’t figured out a convincing excuse yet. I boxed myself in yesterday - couldn’t cim I was sick, not after texting that I’d be te. And once it spiralled into an all-day event, I didn’t have the energy to construct something smarter.

  The worst part is that I really hate lying to Lexi. Hate it. And I’ve done nothing but lie to her since the moment we met. She deserves so much better - but if I gave her the truth, I’d lose everything.

  Cassie: Sorry. Really bad dysphoria, I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry.Lexi: girl, no - I’m so sorry, I didn’t realiseLexi: are you free today? Let’s get together and do something fun. Just you and meLexi: a day for the girlies

  I wince. Not because I’m ungrateful - but because there’s something about that phrase that doesn’t quite sit right on my skin. A day for the girlies. As if I’m one of them. As if I’m not something else entirely, held together by practice and pretending.

  Still, the invitation nds hard. The idea of normality - of brunch and sunlight and pretending to be just a regur girl with her regur best friend - feels like oxygen. My thumbs hesitate above the keyboard.

  I start typing a rejection and stop.

  I shake my head. You know what, Maisie/Cassie? You do deserve a fucking break.

  Cassie: Busy this morning - but have a free afternoon. What u thinking?Lexi: bottomless brunch????

  Oh god. I really shouldn’t. I’ve got a TERF meeting tonight. Filling myself with cocktails beforehand would be incredibly irresponsible.

  Cassie: Yasss!!!

  George summons Sadie and myself as soon as we arrive at the office - Graham wants to speak with the two of us. I’m already dreading it. There’s no logical reason why this meeting should go badly, but I know it will. It’s just one of those things I can feel. Yesterday chewed me up, and this feels like the moment I get spat out.

  I’m finding it hard to look at Sadie, for fear that if I look too hard, I’ll expose what I know.

  Even so, the walk down the fluorescent-lit corridor has a strange warmth to it. Not from the building - that still hums with the sterile chill of filtered air and recycled tension - but from the silence between me and Sadie. It’s not cold anymore. She feels more human today. A side effect, I suppose, of everything we’ve chosen to forget.

  "You did it, right?" she asks, her voice low as we move, George just ahead of us.

  I know what she means - the light, the memory wipe. Did I honour the deal? I nod. "I did. And it worked."

  "Me too." There’s a strange softness in her tone. Not regret, exactly - more like quiet acceptance. "Kinda crazy we probably had the deepest two-hour conversation of our lives and can’t remember any of it."

  "Well. Can’t remember most of it," I murmur.

  "What was that?"

  "Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

  She doesn’t seem to notice the title drop. One point to me. Later, I’ll have to search through Ed Sheeran’s back catalogue. I want to drop ten songs casually into conversation this week. A fun, petty game to keep me amused. The issue is that I don’t think I can name ten of them.

  George holds the door open for us. The office smells like coffee and newspaper ink - faint and stale, but persistent. At the desk is Graham Holmes, our oh-so-beloved leader, his bald head catching the sunlight like it’s trying to blind me. I wonder if it’s a tactical move. I wonder if he knows it’s working.

  "Good morning," Graham says, rising from his chair. "Sadie, MH, George. Take a seat."

  I take the left. Sadie sits in the middle, stiff as ever, and George takes the right - scooting just a little closer to Graham than us. Subtle, but not that subtle. He’s here as our superior, not our comrade.

  Graham seems to be in a pleasant mood, which is a good thing. It seemed like a fifty-fifty chance of whether we were going to get chewed out over taking matters into our own hands, or commended for saving the lives of thousands of newborn babies.

  "Right, let’s get down to business," Graham says, still on his feet. "George has told me what happened up in Dunbne, or at least - the version of events that he’s pieced together from testimonies. I wanted to congratute you both on your persistence in getting this issue resolved - especially you, MH, from what I’ve heard, you handled most of the on-field duties. For a non-trained agent, that is seriously impressive."

  I flinch at the name, but only internally. Sadie doesn’t even twitch. I want to be proud, but the praise feels sticky. Empty. A trophy handed to the b rat for running the maze a little faster than usual.

  But, just looking at this man makes me feel angry. I can't even pretend to be grateful. He smiles, and he bounces around, but I loathe him more than anybody else in the world.

  "I shouldn’t have been there," I say, locking eyes with him as I scowl. My voice is steady, but I can already feel the weight of something starting to break inside me. His brow furrows immediately. "The only reason Sadie and I went to investigate was because The Coalition refused to take her findings seriously."

  I can see George tense up, shuffling awkwardly in his chair. This is his worst nightmare - being trapped in a room with his boss and his team, actually put in a situation where he has to choose one to side with. He doesn’t seize the opportunity to do so, he sits in silence for now.

  "I see," Graham says, keeping his expression neutral, but I can see the hatred flickering in his eyes. His pen taps rhythmically against the desk. "I understand your frustration, MH, but sometimes - difficult decisions have to be made. Despite how it may seem, our resources are limited and we cannot afford to investigate every hunch."

  "If we hadn’t investigated this one, then thousands more babies would’ve been killed," I say, holding his gaze. Daring him to keep pretending that this is acceptable.

  "Mistakes happen," he says with a huff, like he's tired of this already. "And we will review those mistakes, and do what we can to learn from them and improve our processes. Throwing a tantrum is not going to fix things."

  "Throwing a tantrum?" I repeat, my voice rising, the room suddenly feeling too hot, too small. "We put our lives in danger, all because-"

  "MH, stop."

  I freeze. My heart drops so fast it feels like it hits the bottom of my spine. Slowly, I turn to look at Sadie - and I see her. The version of Sadie I knew before yesterday. Cold and calcuted Sadie Cross. Her face is still. Her voice even colder.

  "Calm down," she says. "We had nothing more than a hunch, and we chose to act on it rather than waiting to collect more data. That’s not The Coalition’s fault."

  Something inside me fractures. Shatters. I don’t think I’ve ever hated her more than I do in this moment - not when she used to call me MH every day, not when she would ignore me in the hallway. After everything... after the drive, after the music, after the kiss I’ll never remember. She still chose this. She chose The Coalition. And I was an idiot for believing it would go any other way.

  That hatred renders itself as the inability to speak, as I look at her with a broken face, unable to convey the hurt that I feel.

  "Thank you, Sadie," Graham says, nodding. "That is a very responsible outlook. Our number one priority is keeping The Coalition independent from the world’s governments, and immune from political instability. As part of that noble mission, there will be times when our income is low, and we have to make sacrifices. It is times like these that separate the good agents from the exceptional ones."

  Sacrifices. That word alone makes me want to vomit. I’ve "sacrificed" everything for the cause - my youth, my identity, my safety - so Graham could sit here and py at nobility.

  Sadie nods, tight-lipped. There's something false in her smile, something strained. She knows she’s fucked up. But it doesn’t matter, because she can’t undo what she’s done.

  George clears his throat, eager to change the subject. "The other matter was the equipment. I spoke with Margaret, and she confirmed that it originated in our bs. Obviously, that doesn’t involve you girls - um, it doesn’t involve you two, but I just thought you should both know that it’s being looked into."

  I can’t even look at him. I’m so tired of all of them. I sit still, barely breathing, trying not to let it show - the heartbreak, the betrayal, the burning hatred rising like bile in my throat.

  And you know what? Fuck you too, George.

  "Yes, that is very important," Graham says, nodding his head. "As for the Trowkin that you all brought in, they have been transported to our high-security containment facility in Dornoch. Our teams are doing what they can to... extract the necessary information from them regarding how they obtained this equipment."

  My blood turns to ice. I force myself not to react. Not visibly. I can’t afford to react. But the image won’t stop unspooling in my mind - Gill strapped to a table in a white room, squirming beneath the lights. I should feel no sympathy for the Trowkin - they kidnapped babies and sent them through a portal into a world where they had no hope of surviving. But, speaking to Gill and seeing his retionship with his daughter had confirmed that they weren’t monsters, they were desperate people who did monstrous things. And while that line is very thin, I think the difference is important.

  Graham was talking about torture, for a group of non-humans (with no legal protections) who had surrendered and had already told us everything they knew. It’s unlikely that The Coalition will get any clear answers, but they’ll get revenge, and that’s enough for them.

  Still, I keep my mouth shut. Because I have to. Because I’ve already crossed one line. Because I don’t know how many more I can cross before I’m back in the torture chamber myself. If they find out about Esmeralda, that’s where I’ll be heading.

  "Anywho," Graham says, sitting back in his chair like he’s just wrapped up a pleasant catch-up. "That will be all. I just wanted to extend a congratutions. We’re all still very busy dealing with the train incident, so I didn’t want to let your achievement slip under the radar."

  There’s a polite smile from Sadie, soft and professional.

  I don’t move. I don’t blink. He doesn’t even acknowledge me.

  The air is just as heavy outside his office as it was inside. Like the building itself is holding its breath.

  George disappears down another hallway - probably the bathroom, though I can’t find it in me to care - and Sadie and I walk in silence, heading back to our desks. She’s walking slower than usual, like her steps are weighed down by something.

  She’s looking at the floor.

  "Maisie..." she says eventually, quiet, but I can hear the hesitation. She looks up, and I see it - a flicker of shame. Probably for misnaming me. Probably not enough to stop her doing it again.

  I don't want to hear whatever she thinks is going to fix this.

  I speed up. And without hesitation, I press the mute button in my own head - disconnecting my eardrums, cutting out the sound of her voice like smming a door. It’s instant. Clinical.

  "Don’t," I say, spitting the word like venom over my shoulder.

  It takes me a few hours to realise I accidentally scored a second point in the Sheeran game. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

  After an hour of staring at my screen, not able to concentrate, I do what I always do when I’m sick of my office colleagues and head down to Lab R.

  I almost feel stupid for being upset about it all. People have been calling me "MH" for a very long time, and it was all anybody called me for a while after I gained my retive freedom three years ago. Jordan, George, and Margaret all do their best to call me by the correct name, and I adore them for making the effort. Tommy is a meathead and I have never had any expectations for him. I don’t think Edgar has ever addressed me - or anyone - as anything, ever. But I really thought I had made a breakthrough with Sadie yesterday. I thought that, if nothing else, she saw the importance of respecting my identity. That she heard me.

  Yet the second it was convenient for her, I became nothing but MH again. Just another entity from across the Interstice. A case file in a cage.

  What complicates matters further is that she’s keeping my secret. She knows that I wiped the team’s memory, and while she doesn’t know why, she knows enough to completely destroy my life if she wants to. That makes everything worse. I can’t even resent her properly. I can’t push her too far. She could ruin me with a sentence.

  I haven’t said much since coming down here, mostly just watching Margaret type up a report on her ptop while pretending to study some graphs that I printed off. She has a desk upstairs, but even she seems to prefer the uncomfortable stools and inconvenient PPE to the oppressive silence of the upper floors.

  "Have you ever studied anything reting to resurfacing lost memories?" I ask. My mouth moves before my brain catches up.

  I can’t stop thinking about the photograph. There was a kiss between myself and Sadie Cross. On the lips. And we were smiling. I don’t know which part of that sentence is worse - the action or the expressions.

  The same theories are still spinning around my head. The most horrifying possibility - the one I can’t even name aloud - is that it wasn’t a joke. That I meant it. That I wanted it.

  As much as I hate Sadie right now, there’s a hole in that hatred. A hole shaped like two missing hours. I need to know what happened between us. I need to understand how I could ever have crossed that line. Because if I don’t understand it, I can’t trust any of this. I can’t trust my anger. I can’t trust myself.

  Which means that I need to get them back. Because I have to understand what compelled me into doing something so stupid. I have to know who the real Sadie is so that I can hate her properly.

  Margaret swivels on her stool, a curious look on her face. "This is about the Trowkin, right? What are you trying to remember?"

  I shake my head and offer a casual shrug - the kind that’s designed to shut a conversation down before it has the chance to dig too deep. "I don’t know. We just lost a lot of time, and I feel vioted not knowing what happened."

  She nods, her gaze drifting off to the corner of the room as she slips into her thinking face - the type that rivals Cassie’s for intensity. Her fingers drum on the edge of the stool. After a few moments of silence, she exhales and shakes her head. "This b hasn’t worked on anything like that, but I’m sure another one will have. Somebody built that memory tech-"

  She cuts herself off mid-sentence, spping a hand over her mouth, panic fshing in her eyes. She wasn’t supposed to say that.

  I wave it off with a dry ugh. "Graham already told us. It was our tech."

  She deftes instantly, brushing a hand across her forehead like she’s swiping away a bead of sweat. "Phew. Okay, then yes. If we invented it, surely we had some kind of contingency. I mean, what if an agent accidentally wiped out ten years of mission data? Or their own wedding?"

  That tracks with what I’d already been thinking. If The Coalition has a tool this dangerous, then someone somewhere has to have thought about how to reverse it.

  "I’ll do some digging," she says, her voice lifting in pitch - clearly relieved for the excuse to escape whatever dull report she’s supposed to be writing. "Can’t promise anything though. Might turn out that the only prototype’s buried in a bunker in Brazil."

  I don’t even think before leaning in and pulling her into a hug - quick and tight. Necessary. The kind of stabilising touch I hadn’t even realised I needed until my arms were around her. Margaret has always been the person who feels most like a mum - in the real, ordinary, gentle way that no one else has ever offered me.

  "Thank you," I murmur. "Really. I appreciate it."

  She nods into my shoulder. Doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. Doesn’t probe.

  George wasn’t too pleased at my request to take the afternoon off, but I didn’t give him much of a choice. I’d worked a full day over the weekend, and so The Coalition owed me time. A more dickish boss might’ve pointed out that workers’ rights ws don’t apply to me - but George isn’t like that. Spineless, yes. Cruel, never. He let me go, and for potentially the first time ever, both myself and Lexi are on time for one of my engagements.

  "Girl, you look stunning!" I say, jaw sck as I spot her already seated in the corner of the Caribbean restaurant that’s become our go-to.

  The pce is empty - too tacky to be trendy, too bright to be intimate - but it smells like spice and cinnamon and artificial mango syrup, and nobody else is messy enough to seek out unlimited alcohol at 1pm on a Monday. That gives us the pce to ourselves. A badge of honour, honestly.

  Lexi’s dressed up, and she looks incredible. She’s in a birch denim mini-dress that shows off her freshly waxed legs, with her hair curled into effortless gmour, and her eyelids dusted in red and blue glitter. She looks like she owns the universe. I’ve dressed Cassie in a navy turtleneck and high-waist blue jeans - respectable, zy, deeply underdressed - and I instantly regret it.

  Still, Lexi doesn’t seem to notice. She pulls me in by the hand and kisses me on the cheek, and the touch - ptonic and grounding - smooths something anxious in my chest.

  "You look fabulous yourself. It’s like I’m on a date with Elizabeth Holmes," she grins, already flipping through the drinks menu.

  "Way to make me self-conscious about my voice," I say, giving her a pyful jab in the arm. "I’m way less clocky than her."

  Cassie’s voice passes well; I didn’t feel comfortable giving her too harsh of a voice. Her pitch is effortlessly in the zone that makes other trans women jealous, but I did give her a slight American twang that escapes sometimes. The type that only exists if you’ve spent too much time listening to voice training tutorials from Californian influencers.

  I shouldn’t feel insecure sitting across from Lexi - I could shift into the most fwless cis woman imaginable with barely a thought - but even then, I know I wouldn’t be half the woman Lexi is. She’s radiant. Real. Effortless in a way I’ll never be, even if I cheat.

  I don’t want to pass judgement on Lexi and how well she passes, primarily because it’s impossible for me to see her as anything other than a woman - but from conversations with her, I know that her voice is the one aspect of her transition that she’s really struggled with, and I immediately feel guilty for bringing it up.

  But she doesn’t flinch at the comment. She ughs, deflects, glows. I don’t think there’s anything I could say that would make her love me any less - and I love her so much it hurts. Not romantically, not sexually - it’s something purer than that. She was the first light in my life. The reason I believed I could have a life at all.

  I think of everything I've endured over the past twenty-four hours. The betrayal, the kiss, the memory-wipes, the phone. The long, aching day in Sadie’s car, all the love and confusion that might’ve existed and was erased from my body like it didn’t matter. I would take a thousand days like that if it meant I got to sit here now - watching Lexi smile at me from across a sticky table under a neon "brunch" sign.

  She orders something green, with lots of rum, and I opt for a Long Isnd iced tea. When she raises her eyebrows at me, I shrug my shoulders. "I need to get fucked up, Lex. Fast."

  A silent nod of acknowledgement, and a smile of solidarity - if I’m getting fucked up, then so is she. Yes, I have a meeting with potentially supernatural, definitely evil TERFs ter, I can feel your judgement. But, dear reader, I am a fully capable and responsible adult who knows my limits. I also have the power to speed up my blood flow and kidney rate at will, so I can probably sober up in time. Maybe not enough to pass a breathalyser, but enough to know where I am. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Probably.

  When the drinks are in front of us, and the cisgender waitress is out of earshot, we resume our normal conversations.

  "I’m sorry for getting on your case about yourself," Lexi says, half her mouth embedded into a paper straw. "Dysphoria’s a bitch. I hope I didn’t make it worse."

  I shake my head, waving my hand like the thought is ridiculous. "Lexi, you can’t make anything worse. I’m sorry for not being there."

  She reaches her palms across the table, and I pce my hands on them - both of our mouths still connected to our drinks. It should be a warm, solid moment. And in a way, it is. But it’s also like clutching a ledge that I know I can’t hold forever. Because I lied to her. Again. And worse than that - the lie I told is starting to feel uncomfortably close to the truth.

  I said I bailed on our shift because of dysphoria, and I thought I was lying. I thought I was making it up to cover the mess I’ve made of my entire double life. But what happened with Sadie... the betrayal, the misnaming, the way she erased me to keep her job intact - it shook something loose in me. Made me feel like I was back in that cell, object and specimen and designation. It made me feel unreal. So maybe it was dysphoria. Maybe it always is.

  "Is that why you’re wanting to get fucked up?" Lexi says.

  I ugh and shake my head. "No, I’m over it... I just feel I have a lot going on right now."

  "With your egg boy," she says, nodding eagerly, sparking a groan from me.

  "Don’t even get me started. Eleanor had to kick him out of The Duck on Saturday."

  "Wow." She sps the table in astonishment, beaming. "What the fuck did he do?"

  And that’s when I realise what I’ve done - spun two tangled narratives that don’t quite match up. If Jamie and Lexi ever met, they’d be confused. They probably wouldn’t leap to shapeshifter, but still. Rookie mistake. I bme the small amount of alcohol. I bme Sadie Cross. Fuck you, Sadie.

  "I’m not even sure if he’s an egg," I say, sighing. "He’s really into the whole alpha versus beta thing. He had a breakdown and called himself a beta male in front of me."

  Lexi snorts. "No, that is one thousand per cent egg behaviour, Cass. You know how it is - the idea that you’re actually a woman is so unbelievable that you’ll perform mental gymnastics to justify your feelings in any other way. I got really into these stories online-"

  "I know, Lex, you really don’t need to tell me about your forced fem arc again," I say, ughing but checking over my shoulder to make sure the waitress isn’t creeping back. This is the cursed type of trans chat that proves how useless transphobic journalists are at their job. They could end us overnight.

  "All I’m saying is one of these university halls must have a suitable basement for-"

  "Lexi," I say, giggling hysterically. "Please. Stop."

  She grins, wide and wicked, basking in her power to make me squirm.

  "How’s your himbo doing?" I ask. "Your cis himbo."

  Her teeth seem to double in size as she lets out an animalistic growl of joy. "He’s the best, Cassie. Himbo through and through, don’t get me wrong - I have to go through Trans 101 with him, but he’s so sweet." She’s gushing. "You know, he told me that he went to one of his friends just to ask for advice, because he was so scared of doing something wrong. This guy’s so huge, Cassie, the thought of him going for help is adorable."

  I’ve been put through many tests in the past few days. Yesterday, I forced my optic nerve to become compatible with my mobile phone - experiencing the agony of changing all of the associated nerve cells. Yet somehow, my biggest challenge is holding in a ugh as Lexi tells me about Tommy’s helpful friend - making the story of him breaking and entering my prison cell sound so damn cute.

  I smile, but something twists behind my ribs. I imagine her trusting him. Falling for him. Imagining him holding her close and promising to try. And I want to scream - because Lexi deserves everything. Everything. And Tommy Garrick is not it.

  "Have you met any of his friends?" I say, swirling around the ice at the bottom of my gss. One down.

  She rolls her eyes. "I know what you’re doing, Cass, but he’s not like that. He’s not ashamed of me."

  My heart catches in my throat, even as I fake another smile. I know Tommy is ashamed. That’s the whole problem. He was literally dropping t-slurs in the canteen st week. And the way she says it, so full of certainty and hope - it stings. Because she deserves someone who’d burn down the world before hiding her. Not someone who hides in the dark, whispering threats about keeping secrets.

  "Just be careful, Lex," I say, letting out a breath. "I know you always are, but I don’t trust this guy."

  "You haven’t even met him, Cass."

  "I stalked his social media," I say, folding my arms.

  She scoffs. "You found him just from the name Thomas?"

  I shrug my shoulders. "Thomas Garrick, right? I’m pretty fucking good, Lex, you better believe it."

  It’s a petty victory. A flicker of pride, hollow and desperate, like I’m pying some kind of private game she’ll never understand. I want her to see that I know things - that I can protect her - but I also feel like an idiot for needing that power so badly. For needing something.

  She’s about to expound her astonishment, when the waitress comes to take our second order. More of the same.

  "Remind me never to mess with you, Cassie," she says, ughing. "That’s fucking impressive."

  And I feel the shame settle in again, right beneath my skin. She’s looking at me with admiration - but it’s not really me, is it? It’s the version I made up. The one who doesn’t lie through her teeth just to stay close. The one who doesn’t live in a constant spiral of secrets and cover-ups. She doesn’t know the real me. If she ever did, I know what would happen.

  You’re being reckless, Cassie. You’re showing off, saying things that you shouldn’t be, because you’re still hurting over what happened earlier. Stop it now, or you’re going to fuck everything up and everybody who loves you is going to hate you. Grow up.

  "Yeah," I say, my voice trailing off, as a drink manifests in front of me.

  "Are you sure you’re okay?"

  God damn her and her observational skills. One look and she can see right through me. I don’t deserve that kind of care. But I hold onto it anyway - because even if I’m lying, Lexi still feels like home. And I can’t bear to lose that.

  "I’m fine," I say.

  "No, you’re not."

  Whatever. I’ll make things worse - I don’t care anymore. Not today.

  "Okay, fine." The sigh that escapes me is ragged, pulled straight from the pit of my stomach. "I kissed somebody."

  "What!?" Lexi squeals, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a firework. I can practically feel the staff’s collective scowl hit the back of my neck. It’s not enough that we’re restricting their freedom and preventing them from taking an extended break, now we’re being nuisances. "Who?"

  I roll my eyes, but the sound of her excitement tugs a reluctant smile onto my face - small, guilty, but real. "It doesn’t matter. Just this girl that I met, and... well, she turned out to be a transphobic bitch."

  "Ah. An Ava."

  "Not quite that bad," I say, chuckling - though the ugh is thin and dry. "But bad enough that I don’t want to be around her anymore. But... I don’t know, it’s like I’ve forgotten all the reasons why I liked her in the first pce. I can’t figure out if remembering those reasons would make me want to forgive her and move on, or if she’s just not worth it."

  Even with the softened, Lexi-friendly nguage, the question feels hollow and strange in my mouth - abstracted, like I’ve wrapped it in gauze. But still, Lexi gives it proper thought, as if peeling away the gauze might reveal something solid underneath.

  "Cass, I’ve known you for two years and I’ve never known you to kiss anybody," she says eventually, her voice gentle now - not teasing. "Which means this girl is special. She might be a bitch, but clearly - there’s something about her that drew you to her. Maybe it is worth trying to remember? At least that way you can know for sure."

  Her words nd in a way I didn’t expect - they don’t sting, they settle. I underestimated her. Maybe I always do. She doesn’t know the half of it - but somehow, she’s still right.

  "I think you might be right," I say, nodding, ashamed of how much I’ve buried and how much I’m still burying. That photo burns at the back of my mind - I need to know.

  "But you have to tell me everything now!" she says, grinning, leaning forward like we’re thirteen and this is the sleepover of our lives.

  "Believe me," I murmur, staring down into the depths of my next drink. "I’ve not had nearly enough drinks for that."

  She smiles, but there’s something sad in her eyes. She knows there’s something I’m not telling her. She always knows.

  We’re so drunk that walking is a team sport, our arms looped together tighter than socially acceptable, giggling like drunk teenagers. My brain’s soft, stupid, and unbothered - and it’s a blessing. It lets me forget the ache that’s been nesting in my chest since yesterday, lets me pretend that nobody else in the world exists except Lexi and me.

  She’s moving faster than I am, tugging me along towards the entrance of the indoor complex like she’s got a mission. Bars, restaurants, a cinema - but she’s got her eyes set on the arcade, ser-locked. I try to match her pace, but I’m slower, sluggish, and full of alcoholic iced tea. Still, the determination in her eyes is infectious, and I stumble alongside her, ughing.

  We’ve got an hour before this pce floods with schoolkids, all Mountain Dew and hormone-driven transphobia. I wouldn’t mind elbowing a child if it came to that, but Lexi would probably take issue with it.

  "Let’s dance, bitch," she says, slurring and grinning, her fingers warm in mine as she pulls me towards one of those giant dance machines with the light-up pads. The kind that requires movement - and bance - and something resembling coordination. None of which we currently have.

  Still, I step up beside her, drunk and swaying, and watch her start flicking through the song list.

  "No anime, please," I say, folding my hands like I’m praying, knees bent just a little. Not quite begging. Just tipsy enough to be dramatic.

  Her eyes roll so hard I’m genuinely worried they might never come back. "Cass, you are the only trans woman I know who doesn’t watch it. What is wrong with you?"

  "I don’t know!" I ugh, shrugging like I’ve betrayed the sisterhood. "It’s just not my thing, Lex. Why do they all look twelve?"

  "You’re watching the wrong stuff," she says, with the kind of exasperated love that makes me want to hug her and shake her at the same time. She’s too loud - we’re both too loud - but I don’t care.

  "If you’d just watch one of the recommendations I’ve given you-"

  "What? The ones that get good after the first six seasons?"

  "You wouldn’t understand, Cass!"

  "I’m putting my foot down, Lexi."

  "Ugh, fine."

  She cycles back to the start of the song list, defeated, and settles on a remix of It’s Raining Men. I nod, solemnly. "Banger."

  The fshing lights blur around us, everything neon and violent. The floor’s sticky under my boots. There’s the tang of old popcorn and sugar in the air, and even though my body feels like it's moving through syrup, I feel bold. Confident. I’m not thinking about how I look, or what strangers might see. I have Lexi. And right now, that’s all that matters.

  The music starts and we get lost in it. We’re side-by-side, not touching each other, but it feels like the most intimate thing we’ve ever done together. In this moment, our ughter feels louder than the music, and every frantic stomp I make on the dance pad feels like it’s tethered to her joy. My body is clumsy, chaotic - but I feel like I’m floating. I lose my footing and end up stranded on the backwards arrow, but I don’t care. I could fall ft on my face and it wouldn’t matter, not with Lexi ughing like that - sharp, pure, the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

  When the song ends and the screen confirms she’s destroyed me with triple my score, I colpse into her arms, breathless and dizzy. Nothing exists beyond the machine. Nothing else matters. I forget the ache still lingering in my chest. I forget the secrets. I forget Sadie Cross entirely.

  We nearly jump out of our skin when a voice breaks through the bubble we’ve built. A short, brown-skinned woman - barely in her twenties - is standing nearby, her hands pressed to her face with a squeal. "You guys are so cute together!"

  If I weren’t drunk off my arse, I might’ve found it patronising. Zoo animal shit. But right now, I just smile and lean closer to Lexi as she pulls me in, pnting a cheeky kiss on my lips - an act of casual rebellion that makes my heart spike in my chest. It’s sweet. Dangerous. Euphoria shoots through me so quickly that I can’t stop myself from smiling, even as I try to bury the flicker of guilt that comes with it.

  "Can I get a photo with you two?" the girl asks, already unlocking her phone like she’s not going to take no for an answer. Lexi doesn’t hesitate. She poses over the top of the dance machine, throwing up a peace sign and grinning with all the ease in the world. I do my best to look casual - leaning into her because I want to - but also because her arm’s around my shoulder and I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to.

  The girl crouches, taking the selfie with a bright smile. "Thanks so much," she beams. "You guys have fun!"

  And just like that, she’s gone. Just a moment. A stranger who’ll never know what she walked into. But for a few seconds, we were the version of ourselves that I think we both needed.

  And as she disappears, I already feel the moment slipping away.

  After a period of messiness, I escort Lexi home - two ptonic kisses on the cheek - and then make my way back to mine, where I spend some time re-finding Holly’s face. The same way I re-found Niamh’s st week. Holly’s easier in some ways. Nobody’s seen her in person before, so I don’t need to stress over perfectly reconstructing previous work. But she’s also harder, because every part of her body is deliberate. Built. Unlike Niamh, who was sketched freehand, Holly was carved from a goal.

  Now, I’m standing outside the Labour Club, minutes before the meeting begins, alcohol still singing faintly in my bloodstream. It gives me courage, but I’m scared it’s giving me too much. I rein it in, draw myself smaller. I need Holly to be nervous. She’s just a girl. Too young to be here. Scared, but sweet. The kind of girl they can fold into their ranks like a daughter they wish they had.

  "Are you okay, dear?" a voice asks.

  I turn. A woman stands beside me, also approaching the club. Round face. Fluffy white hair cropped just to her ears. Her blouse is pinstriped and stiff, her thin brows pencilled into soft arches. A single strand of pearls rests across her neck like a dog colr made elegant.

  "Are you here for the, um, meeting?"

  She looks exactly how I’d imagined. If I passed her in the street, I’d think nothing of her. Someone’s gran. The kind who gives you biscuits while calling you "love". But they walk among us.

  "I am," I say, with the right mix of nerves and delight.

  "Oh, that’s excellent!" Her eyes light up - genuine, maybe. Or maybe just hungry. "Are you waiting for someone, or would you like me to show you inside, dear?"

  "Please. I’m a bit scared to go in on my own."

  "Oh, of course! We don’t bite. Come along - I’ll make sure you’re safe."

  I follow her inside.

  The beige halls of the Labour Club look more like the waiting room of a retirement home than the site of political radicalisation. As we ascend the stairs, I feel Holly settle properly in my skin, slotting into pce. It’s nice, almost, to not be Maisie right now.

  The function room is somehow even more depressing. Grey walls. Cork noticeboards. A long white table has been set up with paper cups and a jug of orange juice. The scent of it - sharp and clean - cuts straight through the haze in my stomach and almost makes me gag.

  But it's the centre of the room that matters. A circle of chairs. Just a simple support circle, like you’d see in a grief group or trauma therapy. Something for people who are suffering. It seems out of pce in a room full of people causing that suffering.

  "I’m Betty," the woman says, smiling now with crooked, yellowed teeth. "Everyone here’s lovely, but I suspect you’ll want to speak with Ishani. I think she’ll be delighted to have more young folks here."

  Ah. So there’s already a token young person. Not white too, going by the name. What a find by the TERFs.

  "That’s her over there," Betty says, pointing to a small group in the far corner - two identical-looking middle-aged women with short, grey hair, standing in conversation with...

  Oh, fuck.

  My stomach plummets. Is that the girl from the arcade?

  She’s dressed differently - bright red cardigan, bck skirt - but it’s definitely her. That same tilt of her smile. I freeze, a hundred thoughts crashing through my head all at once. She seemed sweet. She complimented me and Lexi. She asked for a fucking photo. Was that a joke? Was she mocking us?

  Panic climbs my spine like a virus. But no - Cassie and Holly are complete opposites. She won’t recognise me. She can’t. Still, the heat of shame crawls over my skin.

  "What was your name, dear?" Betty asks, thankfully oblivious to the psychological hurricane currently fttening the inside of my skull.

  "Holly," I say, with a smile so sugary it burns. Cassie’s inner voice is already screaming at me - Get out of here. What the fuck are you doing?

  Okay, here’s the awkward part. I haven’t actually figured out how I’m going to determine if somebody is a vampire. If we’re dealing with an Adaptiva, then the only way to know would be to try and kill them. Not practical. But, I have something: nobody in my life outside of The Coalition suspects that I can shift, and there have been times where it’s been quite obvious. When people don’t know about the supernatural world, they excuse some really unusual behaviours. Which means that people like me get sloppy. They act in a way that would be obvious to somebody who is looking. So, that’s my pn - keep my eyes open and look for anything unusual. Weird things that other people wilfully ignore.

  "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Holly," Betty says, and we break apart.

  My legs carry me toward Ishani and the grey twins, even though every part of me wants to sink into the floor. All three women turn as I approach, their eyes narrowing in quiet assessment - then one of the twins (a slightly more angur version) brightens.

  "Ah, you must be Holly, right? M told me about you!"

  They rex. My cover’s secure. I’m not some lone infiltrator who took a wrong turn from the student union - I’m expected.

  "That’s me," I say, injecting a subtle blush into my cheeks. "Sorry, I’m not sure what I’m doing."

  "That’s okay," she says, patting my shoulder with a well-practised gentleness that makes me want to scream. "I’m Karin with an I, that’s Karen with an E, and this" - she gestures toward the girl from the arcade - "is Ishani. Oh, darling, I hope I pronounced that right."

  Ishani assures her that she did, offering me a handshake and a smile that seems... off. She was bubbly in the arcade. Here, there’s something hungry in the way she watches me. Like she’s deciding how to carve me open.

  But I can’t pay too much attention to her, because I’m working hard on containing my ughter over the most stereotypical transphobes to ever exist.

  "Welcome to the resistance," Ishani says, her voice lower now, as if she’s trying it on for size.

  "The resistance?"

  "Against the troons." Her smile stretches, sharp and delighted.

  "Ah, obviously," I say, nodding my head and letting my eyes sparkle in agreement. What a stupid fucking word.

  Okay, we’re doing this again, are we? You need me to expin some culture war bullshit because you’ve had the luxury of never having to endure it. If you don’t know what the word "troon" means, then good for you. It’s a slur against trans women, used only by those with the worst internet addictions, because trans people online got a bit too comfortable with reciming the words "tranny" and "faggot". Render one slur useless, and another takes its pce. I don’t even know where it comes from, it’s just an idiotic word. If somebody called me it, I’d be too busy ughing at them to be offended.

  Ishani crosses her arms. "So, what’s your story, Holly?"

  She’s acting casual, but I can feel her watching me like a hawk. She doesn’t suspect I’m an infiltrator - not yet - but she’s testing me. And - unlike all of the mid-life crises in the room - I don’t understand her. That makes her dangerous. Her excitement is almost contagious, almost charming - if it weren’t wrapped around such horrific beliefs. She’s young, magnetic. I can see why they’d prop her up like a poster child.

  And so, I recount my perfectly crafted backstory. About how I was an idiot who thought I had a girlfriend, when I was actually just dating a porn-addicted man. How this shattered all of my faith in liberal institutions, and made me fear for women’s rights. How I felt so lucky that he didn’t get violent, and how I fear for the other poor girls, dating these "trans-identifying males", that may not be so lucky.

  I speak for quite a while, and even though my voice feels strained - like the words are scraping their way up my throat - they don’t flinch. If they notice, they don’t care. Their eyes light up as I talk about how I used to be one of the enemy - how I used to believe that Gender Critical women were just hateful bigots.

  When I’m finished speaking, I feel a tear trickle down my cheek, and I’m not sure if it came because I’m so deep into character - or if it’s because I hate myself for reciting this shit. For saying it all out loud. For making it real, even if only in performance.

  "So, you’re a lesbian then?" Ishani asks. The question is so jarring it cuts through the fog in my brain. I didn’t expect her to tch onto that part. But it’s fine - I have a line ready.

  "I think so," I say, letting my gaze fall to the floor like I’m ashamed. "But I don’t know. Because I was attracted to him, wasn’t I? How can I be a lesbian if I was okay dating a fucking penis?"

  Karin wraps her bony arm around me, all sharp elbows and predator’s comfort. It doesn’t feel supportive - it feels like restraint. Like ownership.

  "Don’t cry, darling, it’s okay to admit that you were deceived," she says. "You were brainwashed, but you’re free from that cult now. You’re not a bad person for falling for it all, look at how many people have - and most of them haven’t shown the strength that you have, to break free of it."

  I never said I was a bad person. But it doesn’t matter. She’s not listening - none of them are. They hear what they want to hear.

  "I know something that will cheer you up," Ishani says, grinning now. It’s not a friendly expression. There’s something lupine about it - sharp and twitching. The grin of someone who has just remembered that she has teeth.

  She pulls out her phone. My blood turns cold.

  She flicks through some apps and nds on a photo. And I die.

  It’s us. Me and Lexi. At the arcade. We look so beautiful - happy - and the moment I see it, my entire body fshes white-hot. My blood pressure spikes and I have to consciously slow it down before it gives me away. I focus on the muscles in my chest, in my legs. I breathe like I’m in control.

  "These two troons were in a kids’ arcade, surrounded by children, getting all sweaty and making out with each other," Ishani says, and she’s practically giggling. "It would be disgusting, if they didn’t look so fucking hirious. Look at them, Hol, they’re so obviously just men pying dress-up in denim dresses."

  My body is ringing. All I can hear is the snort of Karen with an E, loud and ugly. Like something unholy escaping through her nose.

  Lexi. Lexi.

  She didn’t do anything wrong. She smiled. She kissed my cheek. She was happy, and free, and they can’t fucking stand that. They don’t need context - they don’t care. Because it’s not about safety. It’s not about bathrooms or sports or anything they say it is. It’s about punishing her for committing the gravest crime a trans woman can commit. Being happy.

  "Hol, are you okay?" Karin says, noticing the fact that my skin has lost all colour and that I’m staring at the picture with sadness in my eyes, rather than fiery hatred.

  And I know that I only have seconds to say something, before I’m outed as somebody who feels empathy towards the enemy. Before I’m forever belled as someone that needs to be doubted. I consider saying that I’m still a bit uncomfortable insulting them directly, that I’m still nervous. But I can’t say with confidence that this will work. Another, bolder strategy comes to my head and, though it seems riskier in the long term, I know that it will get me through this conversation. I jab my trembling finger onto Cassie’s face.

  "That’s him. That’s the one I dated."

  Stupid, fucking cunt. You’ve just tied Cassie directly to this game. If things went wrong before, you could make Holly stop existing in a heartbeat. But now, you’ve got Cassie involved and if things go wrong, she can’t vanish - because she is all that you have, you absolute moron.

  Ishani’s eyes widen in panic, as she drops the phone to her side. "Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!" There’s genuine guilt in her voice. "Crap, that’s such bad luck - what are the odds? I’m really sorry that I made you look at him again."

  "How were you ever convinced that was a woman?" Karen with an E says, snorting. She receives a rude look from the other Karin, and slinks down.

  But it’s fine, because I don’t care how much they insult Cassie’s appearance. Cassie is real, but her appearance is a fa?ade. They can’t hurt me or make me feel self-conscious, because I can fix any imperfections instantly. What they don’t realise is that I consider those imperfections to be beautiful.

  You need to get back into Holly headspace, right now, Cass. This is getting dangerous.

  "What’s his name?" Ishani says.

  And I almost open my mouth and say Cassie, when I realise I can just lie. "He calls himself Joanna."

  The three of them physically recoil. "Gross."

  "What’s his real name?" Ishani asks again.

  I shake my head. "I don’t know it."

  Somehow, I don’t think ‘MH’ would be an acceptable answer.

  This is starting to feel like a horrible idea. Nothing is going well, and everything is going badly - it’s just proving to be an exercise in self-hatred and the betrayal of my friends. I’m close to just throwing in the towel and approaching this from a different angle. I could try and lure the vampire out with the perfect trans persona - and then take it down myself. That seems like a much better option, but just as I decide on that, Karin speaks up, looking over my shoulder at the door that I entered through.

  "Ah, M - I thought we were going to have to start without you!"

  And I turn to see the fabled Dr M, and as I spin, I feel the st drops of sanity vanish from my mind. I’ve spent the past week running in circles, and I’m close to running out of rope. I’ve felt the crushing weight of Sadie Cross’ betrayal, I’ve watched as my colleagues disregarded the threat against my community’s lives, I’ve watched as Lexi tumbled into a toxic retionship that I can’t stop... but it was all fine, because I’ve not been alone through it all. I’ve had Lexi, I’ve had Jordan, I’ve had Margaret. They’ve all been by my side, and have kept me functioning - borrowing me their rope when I run out of my own.

  But that all comes crashing down with one swing of the head. The weight of the past week falls on top of me, and I feel one less pair of hands helping me keep it up.

  Because standing in the doorway is the leader of the group, Dr M - better known to me by her full name: Dr Margaret Christie.

  I’m sitting in a circle, surrounded by TERFs repeating the same talking points that I’ve read on social media time and time again. A collection of white women with short and ageing hair, nodding in agreement as they say the same things that they presumably said at the st meeting. But I can’t look at any of them.

  I can’t take my eyes off Margaret.

  She’s right across the circle, but it’s like I’m watching someone I’ve never met before. She moves like Margaret. Speaks like Margaret. Even breathes like Margaret. But I can’t see the woman who hugged me in Lab R, who scanned memory tech for signs of hope. That woman doesn’t exist in this room.

  It feels like a betrayal of nguage itself, hearing that same warm, analytical voice being used to legitimise hate. My body is frozen. Not from fear. From heartbreak.

  Why is she here?

  I have theories. I cling to them like rope, even as they start to fray. Maybe she’s investigating. Maybe she’s here for the same reason I am. After all, she was the one who encouraged me to go out on my own. That’s what I want to believe more than anything - that Margaret has seen what I’ve seen, that she suspects something supernatural, maybe even the vampire. But she’s not here as a curious visitor. She’s their gatekeeper. Their authority. That role isn’t given lightly. She’s been part of this for a long time.

  The alternatives unravel fast, and they’re worse. Conspiracies I don’t want to look at too closely. Maybe she’s the vampire. Maybe she’s spreading some Coalition gospel in secret. But those are easier to stomach than the most obvious expnation - that she’s just a bigot. That the lovely woman that I’ve spent so much time with, who has reassured me through crisis after crisis, has had a double life dedicated to making trans people miserable.

  And why would I ever have noticed that? Nobody considers Maisie to be trans, and it’s not something that I’ve discussed with anybody except Sadie. Perhaps Margaret is simply okay with shapeshifters.

  I want to believe she’s different. My heart still wants to. But then I see the smile forming at the corner of her mouth, the faint glow in her eyes as the conversation circles back to familiar cruelty - and that’s when something breaks in me.

  My other concern is whether or not she can recognise me. Holly and Maisie look completely different - we’ve established this. But I remember Jamie seeing a glimmer of Niamh in Cassie’s eyes. I’ve spent far longer with Margaret and she’s scary smart, which is worrying. Is she going to look into my soul and see Maisie staring back? Even if she doesn’t, I’m now pying a dangerous game, because anything weird that I do can no longer be excused by Occam’s razor. Margaret knows too much.

  The woman next to Ishani is speaking. Thick Eastern European accent, deep voice. She has bck hair - a spsh of youth in a sea of brittle white. I’ve missed the start of her story, but I catch enough to feel the knot in my stomach twist.

  "It’s like they flicked a switch in her overnight," she says. "She was such a tomboy growing up! Always pying with the boys, getting dirty in the mud, and that was okay with me. I would be proud to raise a tomboy, maybe even a lesbian, but now she’s going around calling herself Jack and calling me a bad person for buying her pink things. I’m scared of what she’s becoming."

  The group hums in agreement. Ishani squeezes the woman’s hand like she’s the survivor of something unspeakable.

  But I’m watching Margaret.

  I want her to flinch. I want to see her wince. But she just nods, slowly, with those same sympathetic eyes she used to give me.

  The air feels tighter now. Smaller. My breath catches somewhere between my ribs and refuses to go any further. I’m so aware of my own body, of Holly’s voice, of how close I am to letting something slip.

  "A very familiar story to many in this room," Margaret says, one of her few vocal contributions so far. Her voice sounds exactly the same as it does at work - analytical, but loving. "This is what they do. They isote, manipute, and they erase the very fundamentals that make us human. I know that our newest member has experience with that."

  Okay, Holly, it’s time to stop moping and act like the professional that you are.

  I pull my shoulders inward, making myself smaller - shy, but composed.

  "Um, hi - yes. My name is Holly, and until about a month ago... I was part of the cult. Well, not really - I didn’t pretend to be a boy, but I believed the nonsense online that said it was possible. And what, um, M says is right. It’s the threat of isotion that they use. There’s always this looming spectre that if you say the wrong thing, you’ll be rejected by everybody. Even the other women will turn their backs on you, so that they aren’t made pariahs out of, too. It pushes them into greater extremes, determined to one-up each other, until... I don’t know. And that’s why I’m here, because I’m scared of where this all leads."

  I let my voice tremble just a little - not too much. I can feel my jaw tightening with effort, but I keep the mask on. Small. Believable. Anxious, but brave. I don’t dare look at Margaret yet.

  The others are watching me, nodding with smug recognition, their eyes gleaming like they’ve found a lost child. I shrink further, pretending like I’m not used to attention. Like I’m not used to lying.

  "That rings very true to me," Karen-with-an-E says. "I’ve lost so many friends due to this daft thing. They refuse to hear any other viewpoints, which means people are afraid to share them."

  I gnce - just once - towards Margaret.

  And I freeze.

  She’s already looking at me. Unblinking. Her hands are ced in front of her, her lips gently pressed together. It’s the same posture she uses in the b when a result is almost what she expected, but not quite. Something is off. She’s noticed something.

  "That was very moving, Holly," she says, her voice calm. It sounds exactly like her - except now it’s coming from a stranger. "It really is lovely to see young people breaking free of the group-think. I am curious if you have any thoughts on how we can get through to others in your age group? Ishani has provided us with many ideas, too, but a fresh perspective is always welcomed."

  Her words are perfectly polite. But her eyes won’t leave mine.

  I force a nod. I wet my lips. Speak.

  "What woke me up... peaked me, I think is the word, was seeing my... partner dressing up in my clothes and getting off to... pardon me, sissy porn. It made me realise that it was a perversion and a fetish, rather than the medical condition that these people cim they have. I think those perversions need to be exposed to the world."

  The words sting as they leave my mouth - spiky and foreign, like I’ve ced my tongue with thorns. There’s a hitch in my breath I can’t quite hide. It’s not shame for saying it - Holly isn’t ashamed - it’s the effort of pretending not to be shaken. Of pretending I don’t see Margaret’s expression shift. The tiniest tightening of her brow. The way her smile flickers. Something about me doesn’t fit the pattern she’s expecting.

  I’ve said too much. Too fast. Too cleanly.

  But the rest of the room doesn’t notice. They’re nodding again. Ishani beams like a cult leader hearing scripture recited back to her.

  "I think you’re absolutely right," Ishani says. "People over-simplify it into saying that they have a fetish for cross-dressing, but that’s not it. They have a fetish for tricking us, for getting us to believe that they’re who they say they are. It’s sick."

  The smugness in her voice, the glint in her eye - it hits something raw in me. Trickery. Like the worst thing someone can do is convince the world they're real.

  I nod. Just once. Just enough. I don’t dare look back at Margaret. But I can feel her watching.

  The meeting drones on, a carousel of familiar grievances. Family members who’ve "fallen to the cult," panics over toilets and women’s refuges, and whatever moral panic has been served up by this week’s papers. It should be boring. It is boring. But I’m too on edge to tune any of it out.

  Ishani starts ranting about Big Pharma next - something about oestrogen and political funding - and I almost ugh. The absurdity of it all masks something real and dangerous. These people aren’t simply evil. They believe this. Ishani believes this.

  She’s a walking contradiction. Her performative polish, her barely contained excitement - it’s all surface. Underneath it, I sense something more votile. She’s pying a role, the perfect spokesperson for the group. But the mask isn’t seamless. There’s a flicker too long in her eye, a snarl under the smile. I fear her, because I don’t understand her. And that makes her the most dangerous kind of fanatic. The type who would burn the world down, ughing, because someone once made her feel small.

  And maybe she still is small. The only non-white woman in the room, the youngest by decades. I can’t help but wonder if she’s being used - if someone like Karin-with-an-I saw her as a valuable token and reeled her in. Even monsters can be maniputed. But it doesn’t make me trust her. If anything, it makes her more unpredictable.

  Carmen - the Eastern European dy with the trans son - is quieter, but something about her unsettles me. Her accent, her all-bck outfit - yes, it’s bordering on profiling, and I hate myself for it - but it’s more than that. It’s the way she moves: stiffly, like she hasn’t moved freely in years. Like her limbs are borrowed. My eyes linger too long on her wrists, watching for a twitch that never comes. Definitely a potential vamp.

  Karen and Karin are both painfully dull. I don’t think they’ve said an interesting thing throughout this entire meeting. That said, they blend in perfectly and feel like the ultimate archetype of what a TERF is. If they were trying to blend in, this would be the perfect disguise. I can’t rule them out, much as I want to.

  Betty, on the other hand, is too quiet. I’d nearly forgotten she was here at all, nodding gently like she’s watching a soap opera on mute. That kind of forgettability is a weapon. The sort of predator who stays still enough for you to forget they exist - until they strike. I’m not sure if she’s shy, or patient.

  And then... Margaret.

  I keep trying to look away, but every time I gnce up, she’s there. Sitting calmly, nodding along, eyes warm and knowing. Like she belongs. Like she’s always belonged. Every time I catch her looking at me, it punches something sharp into my chest. I want it to stop, but I also want to keep watching her, desperate for an answer she won’t give me.

  She’s not the vampire. She can’t be. I tell myself that again and again. The Coalition’s a mess, yes, but they’re not that incompetent - surely someone would’ve noticed if one of our senior scientists wasn’t human.

  Unless she’s using the same tech that wiped my memory?

  The thought turns my stomach. I shake it away. No. It wouldn’t work. The memory wipes leave holes. Anyone with sense would investigate. No - Margaret isn’t the vampire. She’s something else. I just don’t know what. And maybe I don’t want to.

  The meeting is winding down now, and with it - I’m realising that I’m either going to have to write this off as a failure, or I’ll have to come back here again. Everybody’s on their feet, working their way around the room - speaking to the people that interested them.

  "It was a pleasure meeting you, Holly," Karin-with-an-I says to me, smiling delicately. "It’s very reassuring to know that people like you exist."

  "Thank you, Karin."

  Ishani approaches and nods her head. She’s about my height - taller than Maisie, shorter than Cassie, level with Holly. "Holly, I’d really like to hear more of your thoughts about everything, you seem really smart. Would you, um, like to get a drink and chat sometime?"

  My brain short-circuits. She’s blushing. Ishani is blushing. Her voice is excited, maybe even giddy - and it’s genuine. There’s no duplicity in her tone, no hint that this is a test. She just... likes me. The most deranged, terminally-online transphobe in the room just asked me out with the giddy nerves of a schoolgirl, and it shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Somewhere in the mess of emotions tearing through me - disgust, arm, hatred - there’s this horrible little spark of validation. Of course I said yes.

  "That sounds great," I say, beaming, as I write down my phone number for her.

  She shivers with excitement, biting her lip to stop a squeal, then pulls me into a hug before bouncing away. Obviously, I don’t really want to go on a date with Ishani. But if I can get some quality one-on-one time, I can use it to learn more about potential vampire suspects.

  I’m still reeling from the awkwardness when I hear a voice call my name from behind.

  "Holly, I wonder if I can have a moment of your time?" Margaret says.

  Fuck. No. No, no, no.

  I turn, slowly. Her voice is soft. Familiar. It sounds like the Margaret I know.

  But I can’t freeze now. I give her a sheepish smile, trying to radiate gratitude for the honour of being noticed. "Of course."

  As the others file out, Margaret sits down on one of the chairs and pats the one next to her. I lower myself onto it slowly, my limbs vibrating, a fizz beneath my skin. There’s pressure in my chest, like I’ve been buried under something heavy and stupid and irreversible. I don’t know why I’m scared - if this turns physical, I can beat Margaret in a fight.

  "I think you’re a liar, Holly," she says, as softly as if she’s complimenting my hair.

  I don’t breathe. "What?"

  "I think your answer about what we can do to increase youth engagement wasn’t honest. You didn’t say what you wanted to say - you said what you thought we wanted to hear. I understand why you’d do that, Holly. You’re new here, you’re young, and probably very intimidated - but I can see that you’re a very smart young woman. I think you would be more valuable to us as somebody who speaks her mind, over somebody who says what she thinks the others want to hear."

  I don’t let the relief show on my face, but it’s heavy - and I feel my heart screech back to its normal pace. She hasn’t clocked me. If anything, she’s bought my act too well.

  My suggestion of "peaking" people with stories about pornography was not a good suggestion. It sounds like a good idea to a room full of bigots, but anybody with a brain knows that somebody raving about "sissy porn" just looks like an insane creep. Margaret thinks Holly is smarter than that.

  "I’m sorry," I say, lowering my eyes to her shoes. "I was pretty nervous and just let my mouth do the thinking."

  She nods, her expression warm. Friendly. Too friendly. She’s acting more like my Margaret now, and that’s the most terrifying part of all.

  "It happens. But you were very impressive today, regardless. I really hope you’ve enjoyed yourself, and that you will return again. I can see great things for your future, Holly."

  Every cell in my body wants to scream. My hands twitch. I want to run, or punch her, or grab her by the shoulders and ask what the fuck she’s doing here. But I just smile.

  "Thank you," I say.

  She scrunches up her nose, and my heart leaps into my throat. She sneezes.

  I blink, startled.

  "Bless you."

  LilAgarwal